Tokens
by UZI4U
Summary: Oneshot. Takes place after Hook. Sam gets an insight into Dean's sentimental side.


Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

AN: Just a oneshot. Takes place after Hook. My first Supernatural fic, but have more in the making. Let me know what y'all think!

Dean rolled his shoulders behind the wheel of his Impala, hoping to relieve the tension across his back and arms. He'd been driving for six hours now, ever since leaving their last gig, and was growing steadily more tired with every mile. He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn with the back of his hand, hoping his brother wouldn't notice. But the younger man's head cocked and his deep brown eyes flickered toward Dean. _Damn._

"Why don't you let me drive?" Sam asked for about the tenth time.

"I don't know, why don't you quit asking?" Dean shot back, adjusting his grip on the wheel.

"Because I can't possibly sleep and you look like hell," Sam answered in that motherly, _why are you being so stubborn?_ voice of his.

Dean sighed. Yes, he was tired, beyond tired, and every muscle in his body ached. And yes, it would make perfect sense to slide over and let Sam drive for a couple of hours. But he couldn't allow that, something in his head refused to give in. He was the big brother. He wasn't supposed to be tired or sore, he wasn't supposed to feel pain or weakness. He was the comforter, the calm steady presence that his baby brother needed so desperately. No, he had to keep driving.

"Shut up," he barked.

"Dean…"

"I said shut up!"

Sam sighed and folded his arms across his chest. Why was his brother such an ass? Why couldn't he just admit when he was tired and let his brother do something nice for him for a change? The answer was obvious to Sam, staring him in the face like the dotted yellow line that stretched on forever in front of the car. Dean thought he was stronger than Sam was, he always had. It had been that way since they were kids; Dean always shouldered the heavier burden and left baby brother with the light job.

It didn't matter, if Dean didn't want Sam's kindness then that was just fine. Well, so long as he didn't fall asleep at the wheel and kill them both.

Dean flipped on the radio and pushed in one of his treasured Zeppelin cassettes, hoping the guitar riffs would help him stay awake. Before long he was humming quietly and tapping his fingers on his thigh. But despite the song's 'electric' qualities, he felt his eyelids drooping. _Caffeine, that's what I need_ he concluded.

Two miles brought them to a gas station and Dean whipped into the empty lot and killed the engine. "I'm getting coffee, you want anything?" he asked the still sulking Sam.

"No thanks," Sam muttered, staring through the windshield at the plethora of neon beer signs in the store window. He knew he was being a baby, but anger retention was just another admirable Winchester quality.

"Fine," Dean climbed out and slammed the door. He stretched and rolled his head side to side. Man was it nice to be out of the car, if only for a minute. Then, as an afterthought, he peeked back into the half open window. "If you're behind the wheel when I get back, I'm gonna kick your ass and stuff you in the trunk."

Sam managed to stare back at his brother with a completely straight face. "You're hilarious."

"I try."

Older brother ventured into the shady convenience store, leaving younger brother slumped in his seat. Sam watched his brother walk away; noticing that his usual strut had become more of a shuffle. He knew he was tired, on the edge of collapse, but he kept going. Did he not trust Sam any more than that?

Becoming even more pissed, Sam sunk lower in his seat and propped his knees up against the dash. But his tall frame was crammed in his new position and his knees put a considerable amount of pressure on the glove compartment. At least that was his hypothesis for why the glove box suddenly popped open and dumped its contents to the floor.

Oh this is just great. He leaned down and began picking up Dean's odd collection of junk. More heavy metal tapes, a pack of gum, some gauze, and a .45 revolver._ Lucky that didn't go off. _Then he caught sight of a folded, tan piece of paper. He picked it up; it was tattered and worn, rubbed smooth by years of handling. _Probably some girl's phone number. _But as he unfolded the paper, he realized that it was larger than he'd first thought. It was the size of craft paper.

. He leaned down and began picking up Dean's odd collection of junk. More heavy metal tapes, a pack of gum, some gauze, and a .45 revolver.Then he caught sight of a folded, tan piece of paper. He picked it up; it was tattered and worn, rubbed smooth by years of handling. But as he unfolded the paper, he realized that it was larger than he'd first thought. It was the size of craft paper. 

Sam sucked in his breath and sat bolt upright in his seat as he unfolded the final crease. Two stick figures stared up at him, one tall and one short, holding hands in the middle of a green field. It was just wax on paper, a simple crayon drawing from a child's imagination, but yet so much more. Sam could remember it like it was yesterday, the day he'd given this picture to his brother…

He'd been five, and being the smallest of the Winchester men, had been forced to sit in the middle of his dad's old Ford pickup. The drive had been long, at least it had seemed that way to the kindergartner, and he'd resorted to playing 'eye spy' with his brother. Dean was rapidly becoming tired of the game and kept 'spying' boring things like the Big Mac wrapper crumpled in between the seats.

After what seemed like forever, John pulled the truck into the lot of a vacant-looking warehouse and told the boys to stay put.

"Look after Sam and keep your gun ready," John cautioned his eldest before shouldering his duffel bag and disappearing into the night. Dean locked the doors and laid his first gun, a snub-nosed .38, across his lap.

Sam looked up at his brother; he had his forehead pressed to the passenger side window. He fogged up the window with little huffs of breath and doodled with his fingertip, only to wipe the image away with his sleeve and start over. He hadn't said anything, but Sam knew that he was upset. Today was Dean's tenth birthday, and he'd spent it hunting, or rather, riding along on Dad's hunt. He had that look in his eyes, the one he got whenever he talked about Mom.

But Sam had a surprise for Dean, one he'd made himself. Five-year-olds have never been known for containing their excitement, and Sam began bouncing up and down in his seat.

"What's the matter Sammy? Do you have to go to the bathroom?" Dean asked, momentarily shaken out of his funk.

"No," Sam squeaked. "I wanna show you sumfing."

Dean tried not to laugh at his brother's babble and donned a very solemn expression. "What is it?"

Sam could hardly contain his glee as he struggled to pull a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. Finally extricating it, Sam handed the paper to his brother, who frowned in puzzlement. He watched Dean unfold the paper and stare quietly at the image before him. Sam grinned with pride, he'd spent an entire afternoon selecting the colors and creating his masterpiece. He had drawn Dean and himself, holding hands and standing in the middle of a field. At the bottom, he'd carefully scrawled _To Dean, Love Sammy._

Dean turned to his younger brother, his eyes strangely wet, and put an arm around him. "Thanks Sammy, I love you," he whispered.

Back in the Impala, twenty-two year old Sam could still hear his brother's whispered words as he traced the words he'd written years ago. "To Dean, Love Sammy," he mouthed silently, his lips quirking into a smile. After all these years, Dean had kept the picture.

Sam suddenly felt like the biggest ass in the world. Dean wasn't trying to shut him out. He didn't refuse his help because he didn't trust him. It was because he loved him. It was because he was still trying to shelter him from the hardships in life. No matter how much he pretended to be a jerk, on the inside, Dean was the ten year old who'd been touched by such a simple token of his baby brother's affection.

Suddenly realizing that Dean would be back any second, Sam hastily stuffed the drawing into the glove box and slammed it shut. He looked up to see his brother shuffling back towards the car holding a steaming cup of coffee and a plastic bag.

Dean opened the door and plopped down with a sigh, setting his coffee on the dash. "Here," he pulled a 3 Musketeers out of the bag and tossed it to Sam. Thenhe pulled a bag of peanut M&Ms out for himself and tore off a corner of the package with his teeth as he started the car.

"Hey Dean," Sam began as he took a bite out of his candy bar.

"Hmmm?" Dean mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate.

"I'm sorry."

Dean swallowed and glanced at his brother. "You're damn right you're sorry."

Sam just smiled to himself. _My sweet, loving brother._


End file.
